


Pet

by NoraNilsson



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, BDSM, Bondage, Dubious Consent, F/M, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 16:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18097724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoraNilsson/pseuds/NoraNilsson
Summary: Erik threatens to tell the managers what a naughty girl Christine is. She begs him to keep their secret. BDSM, very mature, dubcon.





	Pet

Christine’s costume was too tight. The band of the cropped top to the slave girl outfit dug into her ribs and rubbed her skin raw. When she removed it that evening, she was sure she would have a rash.

“Christine, where were you yesterday?” a dancer asked. “I didn’t see you at mass.”

“That’s right, I don’t remember you being there,” Sorelli agreed. She raised her arms above her head; ostensibly to stretch, but they all knew she was only showing off her own costume as queen of the slave girls. “And you didn’t come to the park with us after either.”

Christine swallowed and tried to concentrate on the steps to the dance. But Piangi was complaining, Carlotta was screaming, and Reyer hadn’t started conducting yet. Even Madame Giry was nowhere to be seen.

Nobody knows, she told herself. They are being curious. They mean you no harm. They do not know.

“I was… unwell,” she said softly. “I preferred to stay in the dormitories.”

“But I stayed in the dormitories as well,” Meg said quietly. At least she was discreet. She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t see you.”

Cold sweat broke out across Christine’s forehead. “You must be mistaken, Meg,” she breathed. A set piece fell with a loud thump on the other end of the stage and she jumped. “I – I was, I did, I just -”

Madame Giry clapped once, and banged her cane twice. “Allez,” she called. “Let’s begin.”

Christine let out a sigh of relief and quickly took her place in the line. Step one, step two, pirouette, pliez, on and on; the familiar repetition was comforting. She could let it consume her mind. She could let it erase the memories of what she had really done while the other girls had been at mass.

The scent of spice and musk in the air… silken ribbons restraining her hands – mooring them to an antique oak headboard – the crack of leather through the air…

“Come along, Christine,” a voice chuckled in her ear. “Wouldn’t you like to tell your little friends where you were?”

She gasped and spun around. The rest of the girls stopped and frowned, some jostled from being thrown out of line; a handful at the end kept dancing obliviously. Madame Giry’s eyes bulged.

“What is the matter with you?” she demanded. “What are you doing?”

“F-forgive me, Madame Giry,” Christine stammered. “I – I – thought I heard -”

The voice chuckled in her ear again, and goosebumps broke out on her skin. “Go on,” he coaxed. “Tell her that you thought you heard me in your ear. That will do wonders for your reputation, Christine la folle.”

Christine stifled a sob. She knew that was what some of the cast members called her. Crazy Christine: always praying furiously to her dead papa, always hearing angels, always seeing things that weren’t there. No, of course nobody would believe her now.

“There was a fly,” she whispered.

“A fly,” Madame Giry snapped. “Do not let him interrupt us again. Allez, on recommence.”

Please, leave me alone, Christine begged silently. She closed her eyes and missed a step; the girl beside her glared, but she was able to recoup and rejoin the dance before anyone else noticed.

“What would they all say, I wonder, if they knew what Pristine Christine, la folle had been doing? I think I should like to tell them.”

“No, please,” Christine whispered. “Please don’t. Please.”

They couldn’t know she had been strapped to a bed. They couldn’t know her legs had been spread and her clothes had been stripped. The couldn’t know how she had begged –

“I should tell them how you begged,” he taunted. “Do you remember how you begged, my dear? You begged through tears, if I remember correctly: you were a burbling, crying, incoherent mess, begging for release. Or perhaps I should tell them all how you strained at your ties; how frantically you thrashed against that old bed, groaning and grunting like an animal at the zoo.”

He laughed and Christine’s face burned. It would have been a terrible lie, but it was all true. All of it. She had behaved like an animal. He had strapped her down like a bear brought into captivity. She missed another step.

“I am composing my next note to the managers in my head right now, as we speak,” he continued. “Along with my usual demands, I shall say: Nota bene, messieurs: I believe it important for you to be aware of young Mademoiselle Daaë’s activities when she is not dancing in the corps. Did you know that after hours, she sneaks out of the dormitories and scuttles down to the bowels of the opera house, like a little rat? Once she is there, she removes her clothing for the pleasure of a man who owns her – every hair and freckle on her body – and lets him do terrible things to her. Did you know all that, messieurs?

“I will tell them what I did to you this past Sunday, as an example. I will write: Messieurs, I summoned the little Daaë slut to my home because it was brought to my attention that in addition to playing the Jezebel for me, she had also been seen alone in the company of the opera’s patron, a Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. This was unacceptable, of course; it was clear the Mlle. Daaë was in need of discipline. 

“I brought her into the bedroom and tormented her with threats of what I would do to her that evening, while she removed her clothes at my demand. I told her I would flay her to within an inch of her life (this was a lie: I have a great aversion to blood in the bedroom); I called her a scheming little slut, a shameless Delilah, and the worst kind of whore imaginable. 

“She wept, of course, as she always does, but nonetheless followed my orders and climbed into the bed. She spread her legs as wide as she could and tied her own ankles to the bedposts (I find it adds to the punishment if I make her inflict part of it on herself). I tied her wrists to the headboard.

‘Please Master,’ she begged. ‘I will be a good girl. Please, forgive me. Please, don’t punish me.’

“I ignored her pleas for mercy and stuffed a pair of pantalets in her mouth to keep her quiet. It was a clean pair – I decided not to punish her too severely this time, although I have forced her to keep her used and dirty bloomers in her mouth as punishment before. Once she was gagged, I settled myself between her thighs and began examining her. 

“I looked for any sign that she had allowed the witless Vicomte improper liberties. I spread her nether lips with one hand and inserted a finger from the other. She whimpered, and I could feel her clench around my finger. There was no evidence of a breached innocence, and she was as dry as a bone besides; I withdrew my finger. I was not overly concerned with her maidenhead having been broken, to tell the truth – what worried me more was the possibility that she had let him do other things to her: things I know she finds more exciting than a finger up her cunt.

“She has a small hood of skin at the head of that naughty cunt. Beneath this little protective flap is a tiny pink bud that waxes and wanes according to her level of arousal. I know when she is sexually excited, because the little bud will swell and peak out from beneath the hood of skin. 

“Between my thumb and index finger, I firmly took hold of her bud – protective flap of skin included – and tugged. She wailed through her gag. She tossed her head and tried to squeeze her thighs together. I pressed her thighs apart, and said, ‘You are a very bad girl, and you must be punished. You deserve this punishment. You are a naughty, naughty girl.’

“After giving the little button another squeeze, I released her and bent closer to examine her sex. As I had suspected, her cunt was already gathering moisture, and her bud had begun to swell. 

‘You like that,’ I taunted her. ‘What kind of a filthy slut enjoys being tied up and molested? Are you a filthy slut, Christine?’

“She continued to weep and babbled something through her gag. I knew what would make her even wetter. I bent my mouth to her mound and took that nasty little thing, that swollen little nub, into my mouth and suckled it. She squealed like a pig. I suckled it, and laved my tongue over it, and kissed it, and flicked it, and finally I took it between my teeth and bit down until she screamed. When I pulled away, her sex was positively glistening: the little whore was leaking and dripping fluid all over my clean sheets. I told her that was unacceptable. 

‘You’re incorrigible, Christine,’ I told her. ‘Look at how you enjoy this; I cannot even punish you without it making you as wet as a seasoned streetwalker. I imagine the Vicomte can smell it on you when he walks by, just as a dog can smell when a bitch is in heat. Do you let him come around and sniff at your skirts, hmm? Do you let him mount you like an animal? Do you beg him to fuck your tight little twat?’

“She attempted to spit out her gag, and this angered me. I detest disobedience. With my left hand, I spread her nether lips once more; with my index finger, I pulled back the hood of skin and exposed her pink nub. 

‘This is what you get when you disobey me,’ I said.

“I brought my right hand back, and spanked her soundly right there on her spread sex. The sound was gratifying, a sort of wet slap combined with her anguished scream; in fact, I worried the noise might carry to you, messieurs. She tossed her head wildly and thrashed against her ties. Her face was splotchy, red and wet, with tears, saliva, and God knows what else. It was a distasteful sight, gentlemen, but a necessary exercise. I did it again, and again, and again. I spanked her filthy little twat until it shone as brightly as the red lights down by Pigalle.

“Her channel was drenched by now. I removed her gag and brought this to her attention. I took her nubbin between my fingers again and caressed her gently. I dipped my finger in the moisture seeping out of her and coated her sensitive pink flesh with it. I pressed her with my thumb; I squeezed her lightly between my knuckles. I brought my mouth to her again and circled that bright little pleasure spot with my tongue, over and over again, until her thighs clenched my face and she whimpered for release.

‘Please, Master, I will be good,’ she gasped. ‘I will do whatever you ask of me. Please, may I – please, may I have my release?’

“I slipped two fingers inside her slippery tunnel and continued to lick her. She is a sight to be seen when she is in the throes of pleasure as she was that night. It is true that she will do anything when she reaches that point, only to have release. I could write a book of the degrading things I have made her do before: she will debase herself, spread herself, go on all fours like a beast, allow me to insert whatever I like into any orifice I choose – the list can go on and on. All in the name of physical release.

‘You must say what a nasty girl you are,’ I said. ‘I want to hear you tell me what a nasty, filthy slut you are. First you lead the Vicomte around by your corset strings, and now you are spread before me like a wanton, demanding that I should pleasure you intimately. Tell me you’re a slut.’

‘I’m a slut,’ she wept. ‘I’m a nasty slut. Oh, but please, Master, please!’

‘This filthy cunt does not deserve to be pleasured. It is a toy, for my amusement; you deserve nothing. Do you understand me?’

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ I believe at this point, she would have said anything. My fingers had not yet stopped moving; they continued to pump her twat and rub her pink button, and my other hand had slipped lower and now teased that other opening – that shameful orifice – and still she tossed her head and grunted in desperation.

‘Very well,’ I said, driving one drenched finger into her rectum and plucking at her nub viciously with the other hand. ‘Come if you like, my nasty little bitch, come as I pinch your naughty cunt and shove my fingers in your ass. Only the lowliest streetwalker could find fulfillment in such a way. Come, come, let me feel you clench around my fingers.’

“The violence of her release was surprising, even to me. She cried out, and carried on, and strained against her ties as her hips bucked and her thighs trembled. She thanked me of course – over and over again, she thanked me, her Master, for allowing her such a release. 

“Once her tremors had subsided, and that rosy blush of physical pleasure faded from her skin, the tears began again, as they always do. She turned her face and tried in vain to squeeze her legs shut, to conceal as much of her exposed body as she could.

‘Why is my darling crying?’ I asked her. ‘Why, after I have given you such pleasure, do you cry and try to hide away from me?’

‘I am a whore,’ she wept. ‘I am so ashamed.’

‘Yes, but you are my whore, and there is no shame in that,’ I replied, untying her wrists, then ankles. I bundled her into my lap and rocked her, and stroked her hair the way one might soothe a child after a nightmare. ‘You are my whore, and it gives your Master great pleasure to torment you. You are also a very naughty girl who must be disciplined regularly. You understand that, don’t you, my dear?’

“And you do understand that, don’t you, Christine?” he murmured into her ear behind the curtains.

Rehearsal was over – had been over – for some time now. It was only Christine, arms wrapped around herself, face burning with shame, standing alone backstage, listening to her ghost.

“You are my darling, are you not?” He finally stepped out of the shadows and came to her with his arms spread. She fell into his embrace wordlessly and clutched at his waistcoat to wipe her tears away.

“Please don’t write the managers,” she begged in a small voice. “Please, I couldn’t bear it if they knew.”

“You should be proud to be my pet,” he scolded gently. “Your purpose is to serve me. If this is what I require, you should be happy to comply. I am the Angel of Music, Christine. And you belong to me.”

“Yes,” she wept. “I do belong to you, Master. But please, don’t tell them. I’ll do anything.”

A smile crept slowly across Erik’s masked face. “Anything, my dear?”


End file.
